The RMV
by anon004
Summary: House needs to get a Massachusetts driver's license. Takes place in the Time After Time A/U.


A/N: This one-shot is based on a prompt of sorts from In the House in her story Process of Elimination. In the notes for Chapter 50, she says she had an idea for House going to the DMV. Her birthday was last week, so I hope she'll consider this a small belated birthday gift.

Here is House at the government bureaucracy everyone loves to hate. In the Time After Time universe, it is about six weeks after House and Wilson's wedding. I will most likely add this to the larger fic at some point. But for now, I hope you enjoy this little tidbit.

I did no research on Massachusetts vehicle and traffic law, so please don't comment that any of the rules or penalties cited here are not correct. They probably aren't, but this is fiction and they further the story, okay?

Oh, and I also make no claims to know the physical layout or hours of any Massachusetts RMV office, either. More fiction, goody!

HWHWHW

Disclaimer: Don't own House or his bestest Wilson, but I'll take credit for any OCs wandering into the story.

House hated this. He hated paperwork and he hated bureaucracy and he hated having his time wasted by bullshit. But, as Wilson reminded him, it wouldn't go well if he were ever stopped by the cops if he didn't take care of this, and with his criminal record . . .

He needed, finally, after many months of his delaying it, to get rid of his New Jersey driver's license and replace it with one from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

So, rather than ruin an entire day by going in the morning, House picked an evening that Wilson would be home late from work to visit everyone's favorite government agency.

It didn't help that it was a damp, raw, bone-chilling day in December. The cold no longer bit into his leg like a killer whale feasting on a seal, but the stump did make its presence known by aching in protest at the miserable weather. House entered the building, was given a number and made a beeline for a seat under the handicapped placard. He pulled up the leg of his jeans just enough to let everyone see why he was entitled to sit there.

And he waited for his number to be called at the RMV. Of course, every other state in the These United States called it the DMV, but, no, Massachusetts, as usual, had to be different.

He supposed he should be grateful for that. He and Wilson were recently married in a place that now considered it routine. If the state had decided to follow the norm, it's possible a good chunk of the rest of the country that now recognized his marriage would have done the same and not progressed any further, either. At least things would not be changing as quickly as they were.

Whatever. House dismissed it in his mind. His thoughts wandered to Wilson, the way they always did. The honeymoon had been fantastic, and worth Wilson missing Thanksgiving with House because he had to work – not that they didn't have a nice meal together that Saturday.

House had been able to cook quite a bit of it in advance. The stump would get sore if he were on it too long, but he'd taken enough breaks and done a few things sitting down, like peeling the potatoes. That left Wilson with making the turkey and the gravy, and that was enough standing for him as the weather got increasingly cold and the neuropathy in his feet began to bother him on long days. God, what a pair of cripples they were.

Not that House really cared. Wilson didn't die and House had him every way he wanted him – as a friend, a lover and even a spouse. Which was something that surprised House.

He'd known Wilson was the one, really, since they met in New Orleans, even as he suppressed his desire and accepted what he could get. A close friendship wasn't the worst thing, except those times when he was alone and he knew Wilson was with someone else.

And those times when they were together and he couldn't touch or hold or fuck Wilson because they were "just friends" were pretty bad, too. But somehow, with the help of various substances, his own bitterness, and the distraction of extreme pain, he'd gotten through them.

And the good news was he'd never again have to sit on a couch next to Wilson and not, at least secretly, if not openly, be able to cop a feel. And he wouldn't have to sleep by himself and think about how good it would feel if Wilson were next to him.

And things since the honeymoon had been fantastic, too. Wilson had, as he had contended, become very uninhibited since they were married. Or, at least, he'd become very eager. Since they got back, they'd fallen into a routine where they had sex three times a day during the week – first thing in the morning, when they got home from work and before they went to sleep. And weekends they had even more – sometimes on a lazy Sunday, when nothing else was required of them, it was four, or if they felt particularly ambitious or horny, five times.

Between the end of the severe leg pain, the exercise from the PT and all the endorphins from the copious amounts of sex he was getting, House was sleeping well for the first time in years.

Of course, House simply could not admit that part of his better sleep had to do with Wilson being in his bed. House, the misanthropic bastard, would never say aloud that holding Wilson or Wilson holding him felt, well, good. Really good.

All of these thoughts, though exceedingly pleasant, were getting House a little too, um, excited. He was aware things were starting to show. So, he took a deep breath and pulled out his phone. Time to occupy his mind with a game.

Even as he tried to concentrate, all he could think about was that because they would both be home late, he would no doubt miss his post-work nookie with Wilson. Well, it was Friday. He'd just have to convince Wilson not to piss away a perfectly good Saturday running around doing mindless errands when he could be having sex instead.

These thoughts were doing nothing to help House, um, tamp things down.

After twenty interminable minutes, his number was finally called. He walked over to the window to face his fate.

The woman behind the counter was sitting in a chair and looking at her computer screen. She got up, came to the window, looked at House and said "Wow!"

House noted her less than subtle eyeballing of him at a certain spot somewhere near his center where his torso ended and his legs began.

"What?" House grumbled. He wasn't in the mood for, well, pretty much anything at this point.

"Sorry," she apologized, although her very full face sporting two-plus chins didn't seem at all chagrined. "I couldn't help but notice. Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?"

"Your presence behind the counter did not exactly cause the word 'glad' to pop into my mind," House responded. His lack of thought, given that he was dependent upon this woman approving whatever driving privileges he would be allowed to have, was more than evident. He quickly decided that wasn't the wisest course of action if he wanted to successfully get out of this hellhole with his license before midnight.

House held up his right hand, turning it so the back of it faced the window, thus displaying his engagement and wedding rings with their triangles forming a diamond.

"Ah, you play for the other team," the clerk noted. "Whatever floats your boat. My husband wouldn't be thrilled with my checking out another man, anyway."

House considered himself the epitome of restraint as he refrained from expressing shock that any man would marry this woman. Or, come to think of it, any woman.

The clerk extended a metal drawer out from under the window. House placed his completed paperwork in it and watched as it was pulled back and the clerk retrieved it. He wished he could just mail the form, a copy of the utility bill showing his current address and a copy of a photo id. But, as Wilson had told him, he needed to show up in person, if for no other reason than because they needed to take a picture. Oh, joy.

"So, that must have been some pretty good porn on your phone," she asserted as she reviewed his application.

"Not unless Candy Crush can be considered sexually arousing."

"I'm sure there's someone, somewhere . . . " she noted.

House, although he considered himself a connoisseur of kink, really didn't want to dwell on that.

"So, you need a license issued by Massachusetts."

"Yes," House responded.

"Your application is incomplete," she stated. "When did you become a resident here?"

House had been hoping she wouldn't notice he hadn't filled in that part. Well, he always said hope was for sissies. "Um, about a year ago."

"Weren't you aware that you are supposed to update your license within thirty days of changing residences?" Suddenly, the clerk went all business on his ass.

"Um, no." Although House was aware he was probably well outside the time limits, he had no idea it was a ridiculous thirty days. Maybe what Massachusetts gave away on important things like legitimizing relationships, it took back in unreasonable bureaucracy on trivial things.

"Well, you were lucky you weren't stopped by one of our finest," her voice practically bled sarcasm at the reference to law enforcement. "The fine is $500."

_No wonder Wilson had been such a nag_, House thought. Although, truth be told, now that they were married, he didn't mind the prodding as much. Partly because it was accompanied by a much more enjoyable form of prodding, and partly, he hated to admit, because he was beginning to actually, well, be able to tolerate someone looking out for him. It felt good that someone actually gave enough of a crap about you to see that you were taken care of. Not that he would ever admit that out loud, especially in front of Wilson.

"So, can I get a Massachusetts license?" House inquired sarcastically, "Or will I be sent to Salem to be Giles Cory-ied?"

"I just don't see you as the type to be asking for more weight," the clerk observed with a sardonic smile. "And, yes, you will be granted the 'privilege' of driving in our lovely Commonwealth. And of taking your life in your hands."

House couldn't help but be amused by the clerk's comments. Massachusetts was famous for the Boston Tea Party, Lexington and Concord, being the place where the Industrial Revolution began in the United States, Longfellow, Emerson and Thoreau, the 54th Massachusetts Regiment in the Civil War, Oliver Wendell Holmes, the Fitzgeralds and the Kennedys, one of the more ugly episodes of school integration, many of the best colleges and universities in the country, being a high-tech corridor for more than thirty years, and being the place that had drivers almost as bad as they did in Belgium and Turkey.

"Well, when you put it that way, I can hardly wait," House acknowledged, even as his lips quirked up slightly in a caustic smile.

The clerk snorted and began inputting data using the keyboard in front of her.

Despite all the standing, House's stump didn't seem to be protesting, at least not strongly. He still imagined the relaxation of getting home, ordering takeout and ensconcing himself on the couch to wait for Wilson, who would message the stump and make it feel better.

That might not happen, of course. With the bone-chilling cold and damp, Wilson, who no doubt had been on his feet for most of the day, might have a neuropathy episode. That would mean House would have to take over – messaging Wilson's feet with the capsaicin, getting the door for the food delivery, getting their beverages, and helping Wilson to the bathroom to pee and then to bed.

In past times, House would have thought this was a tremendous burden – actually, he would have referred to it as a royal pain in the ass. But now, well, it just wasn't anymore.

He could finally admit to himself that he took care of Wilson and Wilson took care of him. And that nothing else in the universe really mattered as much as that one small fact.

"Sign here," the clerk brought House out of his reverie by pushing the sliding drawer out so he could take the paper and the pen.

"This glass is bulletproof, isn't it?" House asked as he tapped the window while looking for the signature lines.

"Who wants to know?" the clerk quipped as she waited for House to review the paperwork and sign.

"Obviously not me." House replied as he signed in every place on the forms that required it.

He put it back in the drawer, along with his credit card.

The clerk pointed to an area at the end of the counter. "Go stand there and put your feet on the white footprints."

House did as he was told.

"Lift up your chin a little," the clerk commanded.

House would have protested, but he hated getting his picture taken, so he didn't want to prolong the process any further. All he wanted was to finish this, get home and try to cajole some sex out of Wilson.

That thought was enough to cause the corners of House's mouth to quirk up slightly as the flash went off.

The clerk checked the digital image on the screen in front of her as House made his way back to the window.

"Niice," she remarked, drawing the word out for emphasis, which made House all kinds of uncomfortable.

"So, you're saying I didn't achieve the serial killer look I was striving for?" House snarked.

"Not even close. This picture is adorable."

House became even more ill at ease. Time to change the subject. "Why did you ask me to push out my chin? Easier for law enforcement to identify me?"

The clerk chuckled. "Nah. It just makes people look better in their pictures. Not that you need much help in that department. Your face has an exquisite bone structure."

"Just my luck to get a clerk who operates under the illusion that she's Annie Lebovitz," House remarked in his most sarcastic voice. "Can we just get on with this?"

She returned to her screen to enter some additional data, scanned the copies of his passport, the utility bill, his signature from the form, reviewed everything one last time and hit a key. House assumed it was "enter."

"Sorry, these computers get slow at peak times," the clerk apologized as the hourglass hung in the middle of the screen.

"Can you swipe my credit card while we're waiting?" House asked, hoping to do anything to expedite the process.

"No, the data has to wait to be recognized by the system, otherwise, the payment might become associated with another account and not be applied to yours."

"I always knew I hung out with a bad crowd," House grumbled.

Finally, whatever had been holding things up must have been overcome because they heard the sound of a laser jet printer disgorging paper. The clerk hoisted herself from the chair and waddled over to get the printout.

She scanned it quickly, put it in the tray and pushed it out.

"Please review this to make sure all the information is correct," the clerk directed.

"I just looked at it!" House protested.

"Humor me," the clerk insisted sarcastically.

House gave it a cursory glance and it seemed to be in order. "It's fine."

House gave her back the paperwork. The clerk put it in a file on her desk and then printed out something else, got up to retrieve it and to run the credit card.

She put the credit card receipt through the drawer with a pen. House signed it quickly and put it back. The clerk put the receipt in the file and put the latest printout in the sliding drawer.

It opened a final time. "This is your temporary license. You should receive the permanent one in ten to fifteen business days. It's been a pleasure serving you."

"Yeah, I'll just bet it has," House replied as he snatched up the paper. He moved to the side of the window, folded the paper and put it in his wallet as the next person was called.

The worst part of this was that he'd have to do it yet again when they moved into the new house. Maybe he'd get the same clerk. She wasn't exactly easy on the eyes, but at least she wasn't boring. Time to head home and wait for Wilson.

House had almost called for takeout on the way to the townhouse, but House's car was too old to have a built-in Bluetooth and Massachusetts was one of those states that would fine you heavily for even touching your phone while driving.

As House entered the foyer, he was glad he hadn't. His nose was assaulted by a wonderful smell. He dropped his back pack, removed his coat, and hung it up. He headed for the kitchen.

Apparently, Wilson had set up the crockpot in the morning before he left. The timer showed it had just turned to "keep warm," so House felt no reticence about removing the lid and checking the contents. Not that he would have, anyway, despite the repeated warnings he'd been given by Wilson about not interrupting the cooking process.

It looked like carrots, onions and celery, barley and chunks of beef that were so tender they were falling apart. There was a lot of liquid surrounding these happy ingredients - a very dark, rich, beef broth. There was the aroma of something else, which House couldn't identify until he looked around the appliance as it rested on the countertop and saw an opened bottle of Burgundy.

He was hungry after his ordeal at the RMV, and he almost grabbed a bowl and a spoon and ladled a large portion of the soup into said bowl. He checked his watch. Wilson should be home in about a half-hour.

He had no idea what came over him. It was probably the increased likelihood of multiple sexual encounters over the weekend if he did the polite thing and waited. It certainly wasn't because he liked sharing a meal with Wilson and the two of them talking to each other about their day. No, that was way too domestic for House, The Rebel Loner.

He also refused to admit it was domesticity when he went to the refrigerator and grabbed some lettuce, a tomato, an onion and a cucumber. He got his chef's knife (a birthday present from Wilson last June) and a stool and sat down to chop vegetables for a salad.

Knife work complete, he was about to grab a beer when he thought about the burgundy in the soup. _Don't want to mix grape and grain_ he remembered. So, he got a stemmed glass from one of the cupboards and poured himself some wine. He went to the living room, settled on the couch and turned on the TV.

When another half-hour passed and Wilson hadn't made an appearance, House became frustrated. He told himself it was because Wilson was so pathetic he couldn't tear himself away from his even more pathetic clinic patients. House pushed to the back of his mind the thought that the roads were no doubt becoming icy and that Wilson may have had an accident.

He hoisted himself up off the couch with every determination to grab some of that tantalizingly good soup and to hell with Wilson. Let him wallow in all the cloying compassion.

He made it to the kitchen countertop. He was standing in front of the crockpot that held the food he thought he craved, and yet, he hesitated. He wanted the soup, but, he realized, not nearly as much as he wanted Wilson. He never wanted anything as much as he wanted Wilson. Dammit.

House had been so deep in thought, he hadn't heard the garage door open and the car pull inside. He hadn't heard the sound of the door that led from the garage to the kitchen open, nor had he felt the chill that stirred the air momentarily. He hadn't heard a coat being removed or a briefcase being placed onto an unoccupied kitchen chair.

The first thing he felt was arms around his waist, embracing him while the hands attached to those arms lightly rubbed his belly. This was accompanied by his favorite mouth in the entire world, kissing and nipping the back and sides of his neck and down to whatever bare shoulder skin was available.

Between the wait, his relief and his growing desire for Wilson, he had to say something. "Listen, you have an incredibly hot mouth. You can keep doing what you're doing and then some. Just don't let my husband find out."

Wilson snorted into Houses deltoids.

"Ass," he proclaimed as he pulled off House's button-down and pulled his t-shirt over his head. Wilson reached around and caressed House's nipples as he returned to kissing and nipping the nape of House's neck and his shoulders.

There was a brief pause as Wilson divested himself of his shirt and tie. Then there was the feel – the glorious feel – of Wilson's bare chest against House's bare back. House found it sensual, of course, and Wilson found it liberating. House couldn't see his scars, and it let Wilson pretend, however briefly, that he was still the twenty-something, fresh-faced, boy-wonder oncologist he'd been when they'd first met.

After a few minutes of rocking back and forth in this most pleasant of ways, there was a pause. House felt Wilson unbuckle his belt, unzip his jeans and push them down, along with his boxers. Wilson did the same thing with his clothing, and House found himself enjoying the feeling of his beloved, well, poking at his back door.

House smirked at the idea as reached into a drawer and pulled out some lube.

Wilson applied it to both himself and House's opening, and then worked his fingers around inside, caressing House's prostate and making him oh so hard.

Then Wilson pushed into him, and all House could wonder was whether sex had ever felt this good to anyone, anywhere, at any time as it felt to have Wilson move deep in him. House gripped the countertop to make sure he didn't collapse from the pleasure.

Wilson stroked him as they moved together.

Wilson let go first. The vibrations from Wilson's orgasm and the ejaculate filling House were enough to put House over the edge. He exploded, covering the countertop, spraying over the lid of the crockpot, even hitting the kitchen wall behind.

They stood there for a few moments, getting back their breaths and holding each other.

"I finally understand why they call it a backsplash," House noted.

"If I'm not mistaken, that refers to cooking activities in the kitchen." Wilson observed dryly. "Although, I suppose I should be grateful there is at least some portion of the wall that won't have to be cleaned."

"I did try to aim away from the wallpaper."

"It doesn't look there was any aim involved at all."

"I can't help that you make me lose complete control, Jimmy."

"Yeah, I do, don't I?"

"You're smug, you know that?"

"No, just aware of my tremendous skill. And cunning."

"I think you mean 'cumming.' "

"I'm really good at that, too."

House rolled his eyes. "Can we eat now?"

"We better get this cleaned up first."

"I don't clean, so I'm assuming that's The Royal 'We.' "

"You think this is 'The Royal Wee,' " Wilson stated as he gave House's now flaccid cock a tug.

"And don't you forget it!"

Wilson attempted to move and then he started to chuckle.

"What's so funny?" House asked.

"Look down," Wilson directed.

They taken off their shirts, but they'd been in such a rush, they'd only pushed down their pants and boxers. They were bunched up around their ankles.

"It's like looking at a bad cliché," House observed after he and Wilson had finished laughing.

"Let's just get these off," Wilson replied.

House was about to make a lecherous comment about how Wilson always got him off, but his hunger was becoming more and more of an issue.

After struggling for a few moments, they were finally liberated from their clothing and shoes. Wilson directed House to put the utensils and napkins on the coffee table in the living room while he cleaned up House's, um, expression of love. He smiled to himself as he scrubbed.

"I wanna eat," House whined as he re-entered the kitchen and saw Wilson blocking the crockpot.

"I'm almost done." Wilson stated. "Thank God the lid was closed."

"Extra protein. That you have consumed many times before."

"True," Wilson acknowledged. Part of that acknowledgment consisted of a kiss, which started out lightly and became increasingly passionate.

House pushed away first. "I don't have another round in me just yet. Besides, I'm _starving_."

Wilson could have been upset at this display of House preferring food to him. If he hadn't known House so well, of course.

"Get the bowls," he insisted even as he was smirking.

Dinner was delicious and warming on a cold night. It consisted of food and conversation about what they'd each done that day. House told Wilson what had happened at the RMV, and Wilson told House about his clinic duty. Nothing more than the usual, but that really wasn't the point. It was about being able to share what was going on and to enjoy simply being in the presence of each other. Nothing more and nothing less.

Wilson cleaned up the kitchen as House loaded the dishwasher. After that, they settled in on the couch. House rubbed Wilson's feet and Wilson rubbed House's stump. They both dozed off and then woke up about midnight needing to use the bathroom.

They took care of business and did their other pre-sleep routines and then found themselves in bed together, holding each other. After another, more tender round of lovemaking, they were drowsy.

"It's going to be cold this weekend," House noted. "Can we keep warm by spending it in bed?"

"I have to run some errands tomorrow." Wilson murmured.

"Screw errands. Or, better yet, screw me."

"When you put it like that, how could I not succumb to your charms?" Even half-asleep, Wilson could still lace his voice with sarcasm.

"So, that's a 'yes'?"

"How about I get up early, and get things done before you wake up?"

"Does that mean I have to make breakfast?" House whined.

Wilson ignored his tone. "Actually, a nice brunch would be better. Thanks for offering."

House was about to protest when he realized that he didn't really have the energy. That and making brunch was a small price to pay to get Wilson in the sack from Saturday afternoon until Sunday night. He started to get hard again just thinking about it.

Since they were holding each other closely, Wilson noticed House's reaction.

"You're insatiable, you know that?" he joked.

"Only for you," House replied. Unlike Wilson's tone, his was serious.

"I love you, babe," Wilson stated quietly.

"I love you, too, Jimmy," House responded.

They drifted off to sleep.


End file.
